


The early morning of our April day

by CuscusJones



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bleak Future, Bleeding, Boredom, Career Ending Injuries, Chronic Illness, Disfigurement, Dumbledore's Army, Dysfunctional adult, Gen, Homelessness, Invisible veterans, Limited resources, Lost/misplaced wand, Muggle London, Obsessive-Compulsive, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Patronus, Post-War, Post-war dysfunction, Potions, Punching, Slipping Through The Cracks, Smoking, Social Isolation, Stabbing, Swearing, Tactile, Trichophilia, Unemployable, Veterans, Wandless Magic, pottymouth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23697205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuscusJones/pseuds/CuscusJones
Summary: A student survives the war, twice damned because he neither had tragedy nor glory. Now he's a man perpetually in the middle of things: neither rich enough nor poor enough, neither well enough or broken enough. He's crossed over to Muggle London but is just as irrelevant there. Who is this man and what does today have in store for him?This story touches on pre- and post-war societal and governmental dysfunction and how people slip through the cracks.
Relationships: Michael Corner/Ginny Weasley (past)
Kudos: 1





	The early morning of our April day

They were taking too long. He didn’t like waiting out in the open. Didn’t like it so near a light source. The more he slept rough the more things happened; midges bit him, or he got anxious. If he got bit, he’d scratch. If he got worried, he’d fixate on pulling out beard hairs one by one. Bleeding on his face was a daily occurrence. Then he’d get scabs and he had to start picking them too. The fucking compulsion. If he listened to himself warning him his face was getting uglier and uglier he wouldn’t be out here skulking against the wall waiting for a couple of schoolgirls to move on with their life and their spare change. _Fuck me, you do listen. You just claw your cursed mug anyway. You are fucking useless._

They had finally settled on the chicken crisps and a chocolate milk but put back the Mars bar after counting out their coins, and now one of them was pointing out the jar of gummy pythons. _Put the mingin’ milk back, get a Coke and then you can afford the effin’ Mars_ he thought. His hands were itchy. His calves too. Anxiety brought it on. The itches weren’t terrible in the scheme of things but it still made him want to kick a bin, kick it so hard an impression of a leg would come out the other side. Could be worse. Could be having the shakes with a side of migraine and the bloody sweats. Literally bloody sweats. Down one side of his chest blood oozed out from his pores once a month. Like what even the fuck? So today in the grand scheme of things he was dandy, _put a white satin jumpsuit on and paint a rainbow_ dandy. To be honest he didn’t believe any more that he had ever _not_ had something wrong with his body. _Lies. Anyone come up and say “surely you woke at least one day in your life and felt great” … Fantasy. Fabrication. No such._

Pigtails was putting back the chocolate milk and getting a Fanta. But now plaits was confused. She couldn’t work out that she still didn’t have enough for a Mars and a snake. Shopkeep was pointing at each thing in turn, mouthing values. Too long. Too exposed. The bowed over, bony man in a faded brown parka and ratty jeans skulked off.

The wind was picking up now. Maybe he should hit his third stop before his second. Yeah, mix it up a bit. 

“Woo, man of leisure! Do whatever I please,” came his caustic crow as he chucked a couple of dance moves into his walk. That was a mistake. A stab went to his knee.

“Shit fuck.”

Wincing and cursing, Parka Man made it to the crossing that was the only thing keeping him from his nectared caffeine angel. Impatient bashing of the walk button done, his weepy eyes surveyed the line. Should’ve stuck to the plan. Too many here right now. A crusty hobo glove swept over one of the eyes. _Fucking hate waiting. Fuckin’ eyes. Fuckin’ wind. Fuckin’ little green man COME ON!_ Little Green Man duly appeared, letting the bag of bones jerk his way over to the powder blue van.

This was an ugly park. There was more woodchip than grass and only two bushes. Awnings covered a single fluro light which hung overhead the much abused noticeboard. There was one steel bench bolted to the ground, but louts had managed to warp one end so much that it could only be perched upon. NEW SEAT NOW demanded a poster in red. A stylized ironwork seat fit for a garden gazebo hovered innocently over the angry undersigned. The petitioners had made the effort to screw in a pen attached to a chain to the noticeboard but the pen was snapped in half. The man scoffed. He scoffed every week that he was there, looking at the impotent poster. _What do you feel? Disgust. What about? About them. Disgusting that anyone wastes time on impotent public outrage. Disgust. Impotent mummies with impotent babies, sticking up impotent demands for impotent Councillors. No one’s coming with your stupid replacement seat. Thank you for your attention grabbing impotent poster that suckers fools into reading it. Let us all spend a moment on how you can’t mend it, can’t replace it but you can rage about it… Silently… Impotently._

A thumb rubbed over the hairline above an ear. Another stress marker. This was taking too long. Thumbing the stubby ends of a number of hairs desperately trying to grow back, a pad traced over the scaly, cracked skin. Down over the end of the sideburn it went, then back up through the misshapen pit that stretched from jawline to under the eye, the only part of this face that had a smooth, waxy surface. The thumb travelled this circuit several times over, pressing harder as patience wore thin. A hair broke and the thumbpad registered the hair balling up and cycling the pathway from ear to chin twice before it worked its way to the edge and fell away. _Red bolt of light. You heard it and you saw it. So fucking impotent, standing there as good as a sack of fucking potatoes. Oh look at that! It’s coming straight for ya. It’s not even especially fast and it RSVP’d before it got there. Fucking twat, do something! Oh that’s good, let’s use your fucking cheek as a shield. After all that practise._

Once upon a time he had come off a broom and smacked face first into a tree and they grew his face back good as new. 1998 was a different story. By then if you weren’t out, you couldn’t get out. The shrewd left early; before ‘asylum’ even tinkelled in anyone’s wildest imaginings. You were an emigre, a traveller, an adventurer. Someone to be welcomed, not feared. Refugees on the other hand were a burden - they came with nothing but their trauma. They carried with them a risk - you didn’t want to be targeted for harbouring or sympathizing. The majority of suppliers and potioneers had left or were somehow unable to produce. Growing or wild harvesting ingredients was impossible. The folly of youth, the days he recklessly flew knowing free potions were an infirmary away, and doting Pomfrey double checked everything before discharging you. He, his smashed up face and smashed up body, had been carted off to a space on a dirty floor. His injuries were not life-threatening so the dittany and skele-gro could not go to him. A spell better suited to cuts was used where he still had skin, but for his exposed flesh they used leaves as a makeshift seal and bandaged his head to hold it. Of course, scar potion had been pegged as a non-essential from the start. Even people who could brew didn’t waste the money or time on it. In desperation his mother made inquiries with everyone she met and weeks later heard of someone who had the means to brew. 80 Galleons later she obtained a dodgy and noxious potion that was meant to grow both flesh and skin back. It stank like troll dung and stung for days and though the skin grew over, the cheek never filled out properly again.

For years nothing was normal. It was impossible for anyone to be extensively charitable. Charity was a bottomless pit that sucked the giver dry. The Ministry itself was in no state to fund anything in a substantive manner. Works stopped and started as Ministers granted funding to one place, only to divert it elsewhere after a few months. The talented and moneyed failed to return. Who wanted to come back to a shithole with struggling infrastructure and a broken economy? Snape had been one of the illustrious potioneers who had fallen. The production fell to lesser brewers, or was otherwise tainted by poor ingredients. Ironically, Sweetcheeks here excelled in potions and intended to pursue it. While he lacked self confidence to seek an apprenticeship directly out of Hogwarts, he thought he’d gain employment as a general brewer before reconsidering in a couple of years. None of that was possible any more. Multiple bouts of the _Cruciatus_ meant he randomly shook and the blast to his head meant his sense of smell had deteriorated and attacks of migraines were common. These precluded him from brewing the potions himself since not everything could be held under stasis whenever he suffered an episode. Not that there was gear either. Gringotts had implemented measures for a long time, restricting the amount and frequency of withdrawals. His parents, as for anyone not part of the elite, resorted to barter and selling of personal items to get by. Replacing items was harder; so many things were not being made and importation was crippled by the heavy taxation the Ministry applied in their mad scramble to refill their coffers. First his good stuff went; the pewter cauldron; then the copper. Then even used vials were bartered away.

No career was on the board after the war. There was such a lack of industry that the remaining able bodied people readily filled whatever vacancies arose. Nobody wanted someone with the shakes and a divot on their face. The Ministry had not begun establishing pensions or grants that specifically addressed those affected by the war. He did not qualify for any of the regular pensions either; not old enough; not disabled enough. Was there a check box for “ugly mug precludes employment”?

His father died a few years later from a reaction to a general pain potion. It was especially cruel since he was merely ailing from a sore back, and the potion they could have made of better quality and less expense at home had they the means. His father would never publicly be acknowledged as a war statistic, but their friends knew better. 

His mother took work in the Muggle world. She embroidered and bejewelled bridal gowns and veils for a high street emporium and while each piece paid well, she was hampered by exhaustion from the fiddly wandwork and the limits she set to appear she had done them by hand. Unfortunately in the beginning they had no way to change the Muggle money to wizard money. Gringotts would not until stability had returned, and the people who used to on the street had dried up. It became noticeable quickly that his mother took longer and longer trips into Muggle London. There was nothing nefarious, she simply spent a lot of time leaning over a trolley browsing each lane of a supermarket. 

“It’s simple,” she told him, “the worst thing that has happened to them is that the strawberry ice cream is on sale but the mango isn’t. I want that back. I want to be normal.”

A combination of the increasingly lonely house, frustration at his stagnant life and fear of being a burden to his mother in her golden years led him to mirror her method of self-therapy. Initially noble endeavours drew him. For a few weeks he strolled public gardens, familiarising himself with the latin names and the hallmarks of each species. He followed up with sessions in the public libraries. He fancied himself liberally knowledgeable in his dotage; he’d start on a new subject each year since he had nothing else to occupy him. He and a handful of like-minded individuals could have a Saturday Salon, one-upping each other with obscure facts. It was a rosy picture with feathery edges, a thing that made him feel a bit more positive. That is, until it occurred to him to ponder how to get there.

Who were these figures, standing around chatting? Terry Boot? Hadn’t talked to him since the Last Battle. Anthony Goldstein? Moved to America. They had been his close friends. If he considered his acquaintances from Hogwarts the stuff from which to spin the thread of friendship would be even more wanting. His father’s friends and colleagues had not passed by their house since the funeral. His mother entertained a few widowed friends but he observed their conversations to be neither enlightening nor vivacious. The path to obtain friends by proximity was closed also. As he did not work, he did not have colleagues. As he was scarred, unremarkable, had no income nor fortune, he would not wed, therefore no opportunity to be forced to get to know the husbands of his lady-wife’s circle. So the cloudy, faceless figures gathered around a snooker table in the window of his mind disappeared one by one until only he was left, and then even the snooker table that he would never buy vanished as well.

The nail in the coffin was inadvertently standing next to a grubby, potbellied septuagenarian named ‘Gibles’ while waiting for his coffee at this very same van. Gibles claimed to have served in the First and Second (Muggles) World War, retraced the footsteps of Lawrence of Arabia, been a ladies hairdresser in Persia before they sealed themselves off from the West, was fluent in five African languages and passingly in two more, was familiar with the lifecycle of flamingos and had travelled to the relevant continents to see each of the five extant species in their natural habitat (and did you know that once Australia also had flamingos and he was very lucky to be asked on a dig to recover a complete fossil for the British Museum back in the 70s) and he was able to recite pi to the hundred and second decimal place but he better not do it right now as his throat doctor has warned him about overtaxing his vocal chords (he had an enchanting tenor in his youth). _Helga hex us_ was all he could think over and over as the appalling excuse for a man dressed in a Def Leppard T shirt, roadworkers’ vest and fuzzy zebra stripe pyjama pants under a stained beige trenchcoat (which bore the statement “Art Is Fun” spray-painted on the back) clung to him more tenaciously than a limpet for the better part of three hours. _This is you. This is you if you carry on this foolish endeavour. You won’t be holding court in front of a glowing fireplace, you won’t be swirling around whiskey in a tumbler at a gents’ club… You’ll be Gibles. You’ll stink, piss your pants, bail up piteous passerbys in the street and die in a fire the one time you forget to blow out a candle when retiring to your roach infested humpy under a bridge._

He worked out where else the van camped on its route and swore never to go to that park again.

There was nothing to do after that than waste time, waiting for life to be over. Sitting in a park feeding birds was ok for a while, until it got cold. Until the coppers had patrolled past him ten times in the same week and the suspicion that they might think he was some kind of handsy lech scoping out prey made him seek out a new activity.

Run down sports pubs were what he did now. The more old coots the better. Don’t be the first in, don’t be the last out and no one will care you stayed there all day. A spot near the telly and whatever was on. Bikes, dogs, GGs. Like mother, the forays extended perceptibly to himself but perhaps not to her. Afterall, if she were out, who was home to miss him? One day he just didn’t go home.

Recalling Gibles made him shudder. Finally it was his turn. He took his black bellywarmer to the side table and dumped three sugars into it thanking the volunteer and wandered off lest he meet another Gibles.

Heading down to his second destination he willed his dark elixir to last as long as possible. When it ran out he tipped the cup right up until a mass of sugar sludge made its way to the lip. Trapping the crystals between his tongue and palate he sucked his spit through them until they finally dissolved.

Stop two was one of his “jobs”. It was a small ratshit bar owned by a small ratshit woman. He never determined if the place was built from second hand materials or just made to resemble second hand materials. The lady had a problem. The apartments next door did not enjoy the view of her litter-covered roof so every week up he went, bare handed to collect whatever shit people had chucked up there. Cups and cans were comprehensible, but the sock that had a moth-eaten bra stuffed in it, the mouldy pizza slice in a lunch box, the Italian tile decorated with an orange basket… they were not. The three condoms (gunk filled) tied in one knot was wretched. This was done at night because no one was supposed to be up here, at least not some shaky has-been with the wrong size shoes, no safety gear, relying on a rickety ladder that was probably bought when people got home in horse drawn buggies. So it was in the dark, the roof dappled by street lights and neon signs, when he clamped his cold hand around the rubbery hydra and realising what it was, felt his heart turn to stone as he cursed his parents for not having the foresight, the connections, the wherewithal to come out of the war a few stations above what they did, and cursed the ratshit woman for the pittance she paid him for this dirty work.

It was time to go back to the shop. Pigtails and plaits probably had their crisps and Mars bar come out their arseholes by now. Or they could still be in there deciding whether milk and snakes were better value. Gods, they better not. The brown parka was zipped now and the hood up, over the once bright blue knitted beanie.Thin black strings of his hair clung to his neck. _Fuckssake, migraine is coming_ . _Just this corner then down a bit then you got what you came for. Tomorrow you’re not going to do anything. You’re going to curl up in your blanket nest, the world can kiss your arse._

The shop was thankfully empty save for Gramps, the permanent fixture. The door hadn’t even started closing and Ol’ Wrinkles already had his brand in hand. Just as well as he had the right amount of coins ready to scatter on the counter. _Come on now, quick as you please. This friggin’ white light is showing up every pock, every scar, every bit of crusted up dried blood and flaking skin, not to mention one hollowed out Hollywood special effects sunk cheek. Don’t want to risk someone coming in so they have to make that face. Yeah, that face that makes you wonder why you don’t just throw yourself off a bridge._

Gramps had flicked the coins one by one into his waiting palm and gave a small nod.

The lane behind the shop had no lights but the brown parka could be faintly made out from the light of the street at the end. A thumbpad had already circled around the box until the tab was found and the crisp crinkle of plastic soon followed. The parka came to a stop in order to fish out a smoke and put the box away. Two fingers came up to the tip and he concentrated just on that. The thumb drew a circle on the pad of his forefinger. He could feel his arms erupt in goosebumps as he felt the circle close. _This is the only thing that is whole in your sorry life_. A tiny bulb of flame arose from the circle and he only just managed to get the cigarette alight before the flame burnt out. The parka started moving again.

“Oi! Scabby Mick, zat you?”

_Ah fuck, the two knobheads from the Council flat. Was it a good day or a bad day for them?_

“Ay, fucknuts. I know it’s you, Scabby Mick.”

_A bad day then._ The youth jogged up, his no chin mate lagged behind him.

“Smoke Day, Scabs. Give us a smoke then?”

There was a drag, then a white puff from under the hood followed by a tired sigh.

“If that’s yer fuckin’ attitude you best give us two each.”

“Fuck off. You can have one between yer.”

“You know what? I don’t think I’ll ask from now on.”

Mouthy was pushing his chest up against him, then he noticed No Chin was behind him.

“I’m taking em, Scabs.” 

Two hands dived into the pocket at once, then exited, box caught between a fist and a claw.

“Fuck off, you shit.”

“Fuckin’ give them to me!”

No Chin landed a punch in the kidney. At the same time Mouthy punched him several times in the gut. The box was wrenched free and the lads legged it. Parka had sunk to his knees before collapsing backwards, winded. _What a fucking day, could it get any worse?_

It really hurt where Mouthy had punched him. And it was wet. Why was it wet?

He held a hand up but it was just all black. _You can’t tell, shitferbrains. You’re in the dark and you got dark gloves. Get a grip._ Moaning, his teeth caught a finger and he yanked his hand free. Yes, he could see his five fingered shape now, just dimly. Vaguely he wondered if it was salty because it was dirty or…? His hand went down his shirt, just gently. He didn’t want to be too sure what was happening, did he? 

He could make out his white fingertips. Had he been staring at them for long? He wondered where his hand was, why his fingertips were hovering in the air by themselves. His belly was warm though. It was nice. The more he brushed his shirt, the more his hand felt warm. It felt like he was peeing his pants, if his wee-wee was front and centre of his body. _Yeahhh, nah. You’re not pissin’ yourself, genius. Who the fuck says wee-wee?_ Perhaps someone was standing over him, gently pouring a cup of coffee in a steady stream, letting that melty warmness run over him. _Don’t be stupid. No one’s here._

Quite right. He could hear nothing. He was alone, with a wet shirt, a wet hand, a little warm bath forming at the bottom of his parka. That’s good, it was about time he had a bath.

_It’s not water, though, is it? Ahh, you get it now. The little cunt knifed you._

“Uuuungh.”

_Oh dear. Poppy Pomfrey. You should tell her this needs dittany. Tell her not to worry about the scar potion, save it for someone who’s got a fighting chance of getting laid. You’ll take a blood replenisher though, maybe two. Do you have the caramel one? Snape knows how to make them taste like ice cream. You can’t have a caramel one. Snape’s dead. No more foolish wand waving for him then. Fuck. You had a wand. What did you do with it? Snape would approve. Approve of you not having one._

_But seriously. Where is your wand? Mother has it perhaps.  
_ _Then again, your mother wouldn’t want your wand. Hers is prettier.  
_ _Ginny was pretty. Yeh, she was. Why didn’t you tell her about the flamingos?  
_ _You should’ve taken her to Australia to see the five flamingos.  
_ _You don’t need a wand anyway, Gibles didn’t use a wand.  
_ _In World War One or Two.  
_ _Why did you put your wand away?  
_ _Poppy’s not coming. If only you didn’t sell your cauldron.  
_ _You didn’t have any magic left, that’s what you thought, didn’t you?  
_ _You can do wandless. You know when you close the circle?  
_ _When you close the circle it tastes like Mother’s smile.  
_ _That’s ridiculous, closing the circle is a feel.  
_ _You waved and nothing happened.  
_ _Do you think Terry’s thinking of you?  
_ _It’s aBoot time.  
_ _Micky.  
_ _Micky, cast a Patronus.  
_ _You don’t have a wand. You threw it out when nothing happened.  
_ _Patronus is a feel. You have feels.  
_ _It’s very warm. You didn’t know you had a blanket inside you, did you?  
_ _You have them. I just told you them. You got all the feels.  
_ _Micky, I feel you’ve really turned a Corner.  
_ _I pulled your blanket out. You’re really warm now.  
_ _Cast the Patronus. You know how.  
_ _You have to do it yourself now.  
_ _If you don’t try, you don’t get ice cream.  
_ _You’re not going to have me much longer.  
_ _Snape’s got your Mother’s veil.  
_ _It’s caramel for boots.  
_ _Poppy loves Ginny._  
_You do you.  
_ _Crystal._

Two fingertips touched; a thumb and the forefinger. If he heard, he would have heard his consciousness melt into irrational babble, not before telling him what to do, though.

He felt the fastest time he flew, before he came off the broom;

The smooth, waxy skin over his missing face;

That smooth waxiness same as Ginny’s hands;

Every single crystal of sugar, rough against his gums;

The coldness of his face, his nose;

The heat in his middle which was a velvet blanket, sliding out, enveloping him.

He felt nothing. It was done, he was free.

He was he.

His thumb completed its journey. One end of the ring met the other. A silver wisp rose out of the fingertips; a mayfly that twisted once then faded upon his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Choosing a character who was not famous but not anonymous:  
> A wiki on this character is available here:  
> https://harry-potter-compendium.fandom.com/wiki/Michael_Corner
> 
> Working the Patronus into the story:  
> This wiki describes worthiness and difficulty in relation to the Patronus charm:  
> https://harrypotter.fandom.com/wiki/Patronus_Charm
> 
> Mayflies are noted only for their brief lives. They have not been culturally attributed anything else like other insects have, for example having a 100 year sleep before emerging, great beauty, mysterious qualities, etc.
> 
> Further reading:
> 
> While researching for a title, I came across this poem. It is harmonious with my story so here is a link:  
> https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46986/the-mayfly
> 
> So is this one:  
> https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3797960/mayflies/
> 
> And the winner of the title was sourced from this page:  
> https://www.quotemaster.org/Mayflies
> 
> Here’s an article regarding Stephen Jay Gould, the person that the title came from:  
> http://socialistworker.org/2002-1/410/410_08_StephenJayGould.php


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